Him
by belforma
Summary: An account on the Shivering Isles told from an outsider's point of view.


**Author's Note:** Eh. I was kind of bored and decided to write this. I plan to continue it -- it was fun. Review/criticize if you want. :x  
And, no, there is no OCxSheogorath pairing. She just has an unnatural _obsession_ with the Mad-God.

I originally considered making it a oneshot, but I don't know what to do with it. So I'm just going to mess with the story a bit for now. kthx. :D

* * *

There was this door. This giant fucking _door_, in the middle of the fucking Niben, except it probably couldn't even be considered a door. It was really just a huge cerulean portal, or, if you prefer, the road to hell, paved with insane ramblings and apathetic chamberlains and tri-faced statues of Mad-Gods. 

From inside this door, the Mad-God spoke. Oh, He kept _taunting_ me, He did. "Do you think yourself _worthy_ to be _Sheogorath's champion_?" he would roar. Even after that Dunmer came out of the portal mad, and then was struck down by the filthy Bravil guard, I knew that I would _gladly_ go to His realm and become _His_ esteemed 'Champion' if He wanted me to. The Khajiit that wandered the area of the portal cringed when he spoke, fearful of her _Lord's_ voice, but I stood there and listened, blade still unsheathed as a method of protection. A useless method of protection, of course. No one can be _spared_ from His mighty rule, as it twists and shape-shifts the truth so much that it's not even recognizable – but it's still the truth and you still obey it like a pup obeys its _master_.

It was in this way that the Shivering Isles was false but real to the point where it was _painful_, and that pain seared the skin, distorted the mind, and frayed the nerves, because this was, after all, one of the extents of _His rule_.

A ghost of me entered the portal, unhesitant and chivalrous. The first room was so very black, and there was this quaint little desk. A metronome and a book adorned it as children adorn their mothers, and there was a chair for me and a chair for _him_. Not _Him_, but that damned chamberlain.

I adore Haskill, for Haskill can do no wrong. He is the tool of the Mad-God, and anything by the Mad-God – be it miserable or joyous – is good like Him. But sitting across from him in that black room – oh, how very _black_ it was – I disliked him like the Nines disliked me, although perhaps to a lesser extent because the Nines did particularly _scorn_ me.

_Haskill_ – how it does roll off the tongue – hardly explained what I was doing here. What this fucking _door_ was doing here. He said that it was Sheogorath's right to have it here, as they haven't _harmed_ anyone. The Khajiit and the Dunmer weren't prepared for the Isles, and their minds were now the _property_ of _Him_. I asked him if they could be cured, and he looked at me with the same fucking _blank_ face, replying only with, "You speak as though they were _diseased_." This was my first revelation, the one that would lead me to those _gates_. I should've left the minute I heard that sentence, but it did claw at my mentality with the conviction of an angered Timber Wolf. So small, yet such a _nuisance_.

Instead, I asked him how I could get into the Isles. I told him that I wanted to be Sheogorath's _Champion_.

* * *

The black dissolved into butterflies; thousands of butterflies, painted in colors of midnight and blood and _Nightshade_. I stood alone in the Fringe of Madness, with the giant portal back to Cyrodiil receiving attention only from my back. Sanity screamed to me, "Leave! Go back! Please, please, please…" She pleaded for so long, just kept saying it over and over again. 

_Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease._

_  
_But Insanity bribed my mind to let me off just this once like a thief bribes a guard to turn a blind eye to their crimes, and I _craved_ the Mad-God's blessing, His _gratification_. I traveled to Passwall, taking in all the lovely sights of this new, strange world. The Fringe frightened me, but I didn't turn around. I never even considered. I just wanted to make _Him_ happy. I just wanted to make sure _He_ had an _esteemed Champion_. I waltzed around in a _reverie_, willing to do anything for the Mad-God. Such was the_ extent_ of _His rule_.

I stumbled upon Passwall only to hear of that wretched creature. The _Gatekeeper_. It was a brute, tearing flesh from bone as it _desiccated_ the foolhardy adventurers. I was _smarter_ than that, though. I asked the man with veins of ice to fashion me arrows made of past Gatekeepers' bones in exchange for his _freedom_. A sleazy, exhausted woman told me how the Gatekeeper did feel such pain to his creator's tears, and so I stole her wet handkerchief and used it as a _poison_.

The Gatekeeper fell _by my hand_. The Lands of Dementia called me to its doors, and I ripped the keys from the monster's body, leaving that _wench's_ handkerchief for her.


End file.
